


White Noise

by embulalia



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Genocide Frisk, Hurt No Comfort, Post-Undertale Genocide Route, Undertale Genocide Route, Very bad coping techniques, as in there have been ones before this one but it's also in the middle of one, in which I write Chara quite differently from how i actually interpret them as a character, okay back to working on my big series, shameless extended metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:31:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7577797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embulalia/pseuds/embulalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sans lays sprawled in his bedroom, contemplating the nature of an impermanent death while trying to ignore what's going on around him. </p><p>An unplanned oneshot in response to a gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Noise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Little_Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Little_Sun/gifts).



> I sure do love me an extended metaphor.

It’s midday, and the artificial light created by the CORE glitters off the snow and straight through Sans’s bedroom window. It might have annoyed him a little on a normal day, to have that unnecessary roadblock to sleep pestering him. Today though… Well, there was no chance of him sleeping anyway. 

He’s sprawled on the bare mattress that makes up his bed, his limbs splayed rather clumsily. He had wandered his way up here shortly after his brother left the house for work this morning. His position isn’t particularly comfortable; in fact, the way his leg is twisted creates the slightest sting in his knee. But he can’t be bothered to move. Nah, he’s content to just stay here for the next few hours. 

Well, “content” is probably not the best word for what he’s feeling. But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care.

When had this happened? What started this? It doesn’t matter, and he knows it doesn’t, but even now he can’t help but wonder. Weren’t they happy once? He’s sure they were. He can remember the feeling of sunlight on his face, of watching the stars with his brother and his friends. He can remember dipping his toes in the ocean, the feeling of wind on his bones as he lounged in the back seat of his brother’s convertible, being free. He can remember it all so clearly. 

(It wasn’t all fun and games then, of course; the prejudices of humans and Sans’s own cruel mind made sure of that. There were nights filled with panic and hushed crying, there were days made of insults and threats. He remembers those, too. But nothing can make you miss being called an “abomination and a crime against nature” like… well, THIS)

But then suddenly, they weren’t free anymore. It was like blinking; one moment they were, and the next they weren’t. Sans is still struggling to come to terms with having it all ripped away. 

He had wanted to just stay laying on his grubby mattress forever after that awful moment of realization, of finding himself back in Snowdin, far away from the stars. Or at least he could stay there for a few days. But then again, he had a few questions, and to ask them, there was somewhere he had to be: someone he had to meet.

He remembers seeing the human for the first time after that. They came out of the big door in the woods like they always did. Sans snuck up on them just like he always had.

What wasn’t like before was the layer of dust clinging to their sweater.

After the twentieth time, that sight had become a lot less horrifying than it had been the first.

Sans shivers and stuffs his hands back into his hoodie pockets. Any moment now; it should be any moment now. He shuts his eyes and breathes out shakily, taking another crack at falling asleep. It usually comes so easily to him.

When he had woken up back in bed yet again this morning, his chest and stomach ached with a phantom pain. That pain used to bother him more in the beginning too. But by now, it’s just a dull, constant ache lingering in his ribs.

He used to hope that the kid he’d once known would return. With each major reset, there was a chance that the sweet, merciful child who had saved them all might be the one creeping out of that door. But by the fourth crushing disappointment, he had given up. Now, he’s lost count of how many times this has happened. 

A sense of dread fills his soul. He finally moves, curling up on his side and shuddering. It’s happening now.

He has given up on many things in the name of survival, of clinging to whatever sanity he has left. This is just one of many, he reminds himself. This is just one of many.

In the beginning, he had tried to put a stop to it. He had followed the human more closely, kept directly on their tail all the way through the abandoned town. He watched them rob the shops, kick up the snow, grin insidiously at nothing. Or, more likely, at him. After all, they knew he was watching. 

He remembers how thick the fog was just outside of town. It made it difficult to see what was going on. But it certainly did nothing to mask the voice of his brother engaging that… thing in battle, offering it mercy. Sans remembers the panic that bubbled up in his chest when he saw the grin on the kid’s cheeks, when he saw their grip on the knife tighten, when he saw them raise it—and that’s where the memory stops: in a flash of pain and fear. 

How many times had he taken that blow in the beginning? Six? Seven? Then he was a moment too late on the eighth. It was the first time he had ever seen his brother crumble into dust. He remembers the shock, the gnawing pain that burst into his soul immediately, the inability to think anything. 

He remembers the human’s little laugh, like a tinkling bell, as they kicked his brother’s dust and skipped on to Waterfall.

Sans had never fought so hard as he did when that… creature wandered into the Judgement Hall, trailing dust behind them with every flouncy step.

But that was so long ago. So many times he has seen his brother’s body crumble, watched the human carry on without a care. So many times he has fought them with every shred of his being across countless timelines, until they broke the rules to finish him off too. 

Back when Sans was working as a scientist, he had read about a study involving white noise. It was one of those topics that didn’t bear much relevance to life in the Underground, but it was described in one of the textbooks he recovered from the dump, so he dutifully read all about it in his downtime. He found it rather fascinated: a droning, fuzzy sound that could obliterate and block out any other noises it encountered. Despite how loud it was, it could also be very easily ignored, completely slipping from perception after only a few minutes of continuous play. He had a hard time imagining how something so obvious and loud could be just… ignored like that. 

He understands it now, though. He has understood it ever since he watched the human murder his brother for the tenth time and discovered that all he felt in response was a dull, deep ache in his bones. 

He wonders if it’s over yet. The human has never really bothered to drag out the process; in fact, they seem to get the most satisfaction out of killing Papyrus in one blow. Decapitation is their favourite (at least, it’s the one he’s seen them use most often). He hopes that it doesn’t hurt him too much. Taking that blade to the abdomen is the kind of hot, deep agony that doesn’t disappear no matter how many times it happens. But, ironically enough, it always seems to take longer for Sans to finally dissolve, despite his frailty. He used to wonder why. Now, he can’t bring himself to care.

The apathy scares him. He hates that he can’t summon more than a resigned sorrow to the pile of dust scattered across the snowy ground. But it’s probably better this way. This is his life now, after all. It’s best if it can’t hurt him anymore.

Eventually, he drags himself to his feet. He could teleport to the edge of town, but it doesn’t feel worth it. He’s in no rush. It’ll take the human a little while longer to reach New Home, so he might as well drag his feet. 

The cold wind of Snowdin ruffles the fur of his hood, and he pulls it up over his head. He hunches over slightly and keeps his eyes down as he trudges through the snow, watching the fluffy white powder cling to the pink fuzz of his slippers. Oh, slipper, singular. He only has one on. He must’ve forgotten the other. Oh well; he couldn’t really feel the cold anyway.

The fog at the edge of town has cleared, as it always does after it’s all over. Sans shivers despite himself, his nerves grating slightly as they always do. It hurts, coming upon the dust. It always hurts, even through the thick veil of apathetic resignation. He hates this part.

He can see the human’s small footprints, as well as the large ones of his brother. He can see where the large ones stop and the tiny ones continue on. This is where the dust usually lays. But this time, he doesn’t see any.

Sans furrows his skeletal brow in confusion. Where did it go? It’s always right here, right in the middle of the land bridge. Every single time it has been here: whether left in a pile or scattered about the area, this is where it’s supposed to be. 

Sans straightens his back, a puff of wind blowing his hood off his skull. He paces back and forth across the patch of land, scouring the snow for the fine, grey powder. Not a trace of it can be found. His confusion only grows, and he tries searching the entire length of the bridge. Still no dust. 

The confusion swells, then bubbles into something else, an emotion Sans wasn’t sure he was still capable of feeling.

There’s no dust. Not a spec of it. 

And Sans’s soul is full of hope.

 

 

Sans stands amid the beautiful, golden pillars of the Judgement Hall, rocking back and forth idly on his little feet. He hadn’t been able to find Papyrus, but he also hadn’t looked very hard; he had wasted too much time in his bed. The human would be arriving here any moment, and he has to be ready for them. It’s his job, after all. Besides, Papyrus is probably traipsing around Snowdin, being his usual loud, boisterous self. He tells himself that he’ll get home at the end of this day and find a plate of warm spaghetti awaiting him, both undercooked and burned at the same time somehow. Just how he likes it. 

He hasn’t felt anything like hope in quite a long, long while now, and it’s beyond infectious; as soon as even the hint of a possibility that Papyrus had been spared was shown to him, his desperate soul latched onto it and held it close, parading it around as certain fact. How could it not be, after all? It must be close to forty or fifty times now that the creature wearing his old friend’s skin has murdered his brother, and, on every single one of those times, Papyrus’s dust was left in a pile or scattered lazily across the snow where they had fought. Every single time. The only occasion in which that dust wasn’t left there was when Frisk had spared every monster in the Underground. Perhaps everything is fine now, and Frisk has finally come back. Perhaps, when the human comes before him, he will find their LV to be 1, just as it’s supposed to be. 

Perhaps things will be better from now on.

He hears little footsteps, the quiet clicking sounds echoing across the long hallway, bouncing off the sparkling, gilded surfaces. Sans watches them approach, his soul swelling affectionately at the sight of the child. It’s his old friend, he’s sure of it. They’re even carrying that stick instead of the rusty frying pan the demon usually wields when it comes here. And they’re wearing… something pale red? He can’t remember seeing anything like that before. Perhaps they had stained something with ketchup and failed to wash it all the way out. He had a few shirts that looked like that. They could probably use some tips on how to wash the stains out: his favourite one is “don’t. ketchup stains are totally natural, just like falling asleep standing up and those moments where your hot dog slips out of the bun. besides, they’re preeeetty attractive, you know.” Frisk would definitely appreciate that. 

It’s always nice to see the kid smiling, Sans thinks as they come closer. A slight chill runs down his spine. The saunter isn’t very… Frisk. It’s more… more… 

But they spared Papyrus. There was no dust. There was no dust.

The faded red garment, it’s a scarf; he can see that now. And it’s not faded from overuse or poorly washed stains. It’s… something else…

Sans takes a step back by instinct when the kid gets to the usual spot. He clears his throat, needing to regather himself. He takes a breath in to speak.

“Sans,” coos the kid, beating him to it, “Long time no see. I missed you in Snowdin today.” He doesn’t answer, his eyes glued to the scarf. The kid follows his gaze, then giggles, pulling it off. A small cloud of dust poofs into the air. Their grin widens as Sans’s eyes go dark. “Oh, do you like my souvenir? I picked it up off the ground earlier. It was sitting in a big pile of dust! Gross, right?” They move in closer, and Sans can’t step back. He’s rooted in place, his soul fluttering, his mind full of cotton as he comes crashing down from whatever dreamland he had been stupid enough to let himself go into. “Oh, what’s that? You didn’t see any dust? Well, I figured that no one wanted to have a bunch of it just laying around. So I decided to be a good citizen and clean it up!”

“wh... what did you… did you…?” sans asks, his voice very small. His eye sockets are still pitch black. 

“What did I do with the dust?” The kid saunters even closer, so close that sans can feel their hot breath against his face. He tries to move back, but his legs are locked in place. His trembling knees refuse to budge. “Well I’m glad you asked! It was really hard to figure out what to do with it! I thought about tossing it in the dump, but I didn’t think that was good enough. What if someone with asthma went through, and it bothered their lungs? I figured it’d be better if it was somewhere where it couldn’t go into the air, so I dumped it in the lava in Hotand! Good idea, right?!”

Sans’s breath catches and his vision goes black for a moment. In… in the lava in Hotland… His brother’s… dust… lost in the… in the lava… 

But there wasn’t any dust… he’s supposed to be… 

Sans wheezes quietly, “I… I thought—” 

“You thought I spared him?” the kid laughs, the sound full and round and nearly hysterical. They wipe tears from their eyes. “You’ve gotta be kidding me! I thought you knew better by now!” They lightly pap Sans’s cheek with the dusty scarf. He coughs on it, and then panics as he realizes that some dust had gotten in his MOUTH, that he could TASTE it. He doubles over, hacking coarsely. The kid lightly pushes on his skull, and he falls back on his ass, shaking from head to toe. He’s spitting desperately, trying to get that awful taste out of his mouth. The kid grabs him by the front of his sweater, bringing them nose to nose bone, staring directly into his teary eyes. “I guess you’re a lot dumber than I thought. I figured 47 times was enough for you to know how this works. But no, as soon as I do one thing different, you think the entire system has fallen apart and ole goody two shoes will be back to save you all. Well guess what, Sansy? That’s not gonna happen. It’s just you and me, across infinite timelines, forever and ever. And we’ll have lots of fun.”

They grip the stick tighter in their grubby hand. Sans watches them raise it up into the air, too shaken and mortified to even try to dodge.

The thing about white noise was that, apparently, it would blend into the background super easily as long as you kept listening to it. If you switched it off and then turned it back on a little while later, the harsh static sounds would be just as jarring and unpleasant as they were when you first heard them. 

After his few hours away, it would take an awful lot of listening for Sans to get used to it again.


End file.
